


Closing Time

by Anaross



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 04:31:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3433670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anaross/pseuds/Anaross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logan is kicked out of yet another bar at closing. The bartender is surprisingly helpful. Turns out he's in need of a private eye, and Logan knows one, so he can be helpful right back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is unfinished and likely to remain so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I warned you.  Sigh.  Buffy/VM crossover.  I think it'll end up Spuffy, so ignore the slashy overtones in the first chapter. (But don't you think Spike and Logan would be pretty together?)

Even through his closed lids, Logan could see the flash as all the bar's lights went on, and then a forceful hand was shaking his shoulder. "Closing time, kid."

He flinched away and rolled his head to the side, his ear landing in a spill of beer.  Slowly, he glanced up, expecting to see a 300-pound bruiser of a bouncer on the other side of that powerful hand.  But it was only the bartender, a muscular but slender man with the half-tone hair his buddy Dick got everytime he quit surfing for awhile– blonde on the tips, and dark underneath.  "Yeah," Logan said, and pushed away from the table. 

But he couldn't make it all the way to his feet, and the bartender muttered, "Christ," and shoved a hand under Logan's armpit. Boy, that guy had a grip.  Now Logan didn't have much of a choice but to set his feet and get them moving.

"I mean it.  I let you sleep while I cleaned up. But everyone's gone, and I gotta close the place."

"Okay, okay, going." Logan headed to the door.  But there he stopped.  The barroom was empty, and the bartender was waiting with a ring of keys in his hand, and Logan couldn't remember where he was, or where he was going.  "Just one more before I go," he said, and because he was Logan Echolls, it came out a command instead of a request. 

The bartender didn't protest like he ought to do, claim the closing time, the law, the prospect of firing, and a general dislike of rich kids who thought the rules didn't apply to them.  Instead he reached a hand behind the bar and came out with a half-full bottle of whisky. Real whisky– not the rotgut that fit this beach dive, but something Logan recognized because his dad's agent had given that as a gift every Christmas.  Bowmore.  The bartender yanked off the top and took a swig, as disrespectful of the quality as if it was distilled last week, not 16 years ago.  Then he walked over and held the bottle out to Logan.

Logan stared at it, remembering his dad pouring himself a glass of this whisky, hoisting it up and toasting to another year of successful deals and starring roles. 

The hand holding the bottle didn't falter, but something in the bartender's stance made Logan feel guilty. The man had to be thinking that this was a personal diss of him, of his spit on the mouth of the bottle. And it wasn't. Logan was beyond caring whose spit he shared. And he ought to be beyond caring what memories a bottle of whisky brought back.

"Thanks." He grabbed the bottle and took his own swig, and felt a stirring of pride– not many 19-year-olds could swallow that down without coughing. 

Of course, that last bit was about all he needed to fall back into the stupor he'd just been roused from. He slumped against the door frame and it was all he could do to hang on to the bottle. 

"Okay," the bartender said. "Which way should I shove you?" He had a British accent.  Logan remembered now that this was the one who had taken his wallet, saying something in that stagey accent about keeping it safe till closing time.  Got to get it, he thought, but then he felt the wallet square against his thigh, deep in his cargo pocket, and he wondered when the bartender had given it back. Or maybe slid it into his pants when he was passed out. 

"Which way..." Logan echoed. The door was open all of a sudden, and he would have fallen except for that hand gripping his upper arm.  Right ahead of his feet was the boardwalk, and Logan couldn't remember where he was, so he couldn't remember which way to turn. "Dunno."

The bartender sighed.  "All right. Where's your home, lad?" His voice was unexpectedly kind.

"Burned down." Logan tried a smile, just to show he didn't need kindness. Didn't need a helping hand.  But of course he did. One thing Logan always did was need.

"So where you staying?" Now there was an edge over the patience, and the grip tightened.

Logan concentrated and came up with "Neptune Grand Condos."

The bartender pulled him onto the boardwalk and propped him against the shredding wood of the bar's seafront wall.  As he locked the door, he said, "You could maybe afford a better dive than this."

"You're the only one left." That sounded too ... lonely. So he added, "That'll let me in." No better. "That'll take my ID."

"Yeah. Well. Where I come from, they let you drink at 18."

"I'm older than that," Logan said. It shouldn't have come out that proud, but hell, it meant something, living this long when he'd done his best to die young. "It's this way."

He started off to the right, but that hand reached out again, grabbed the bottle, and tugged it and Logan the other way.  "Christ, you're stupid," the bartender said.  "You're lucky I'm reformed, that's all I can say."

Once Logan had blinked a couple times so he could see past the yellow flourescent light over the boardwalk, he realized the bartender was right. "Left." He staggered off in that direction, but the other man was still there, hand just above his own on the neck of the bottle, holding him back. "Oh. Right." He tried to let it go, but now that his feet were following orders, his hand wouldn't. 

"I'll see you home," the bartender said, his voice all silk and menace, "and then you'll give me back my bottle."

"Right," Logan said.  "It's just this way."

So they started off down the boardwalk, Logan hanging onto the bottle like it was a life-preserver, the bartender following close, occasionally reaching out a steadying hand. 

"What's your name?" Logan said, just because he should.

"Spike."

No last name. Well, Logan understood that. He'd like to lose his last name too. "Logan."

"Like the ponce on X-Men," Spike said.

Logan didn't know what a ponce was, but he did know X-Men– watched it probably 200 times that year when Tina left home and his mother went into rehab.  "Wolverine. Yeah."

"Storm or Jean?"

"Mystique," Logan said promptly. 

The bartender– Spike– laughed.  "Yeah. She'd show you a real good time, before she took off your head and swallowed it whole."

"My kind of woman," and it was way too true.  He had only enough time to think Veronica's name, no more than that, and the misery rose in him.

"Steady now," the bartender said, his hand still strong and cool on Logan's bare arm, but comforting too. "It'll get easier."

"When?" Logan asked, because he thought he ought to know, maybe start planning for it.

"A year or so." Spike paused, and then added, "Maybe two. And then you'll decide you were lucky to get to love her. Didn't have to get her to love you back."

Logan didn't want to hear it.  Didn't care that the man had to speak from experience. "Don't want ever to believe that."

"Was is the saddest word there is," Spike said, although Logan was pretty sure he hadn't said that word.    

"There are sadder words," he said belligerently.

"It's a quote," Spike replied. "Faulkner. Only I made it more comprehensible."

Logan had skipped the session of his lit class on Faulkner, so he didn't bother to contest this. He just stared ahead into the darkness beyond the twinkling lights of his town and took a deep breath of the sea air, sucking in the salt and the kelp and the suntan lotion.  "That's the meaning, huh?  The purpose of all this life shit?"

"Isn't any purpose.  Just is. Or was. Or will be."

"We could start a club," Logan said. "Nihilists R Us."

"You don't know what nihilism is," Spike said, and this time, Logan believed him.

"I only know what loss is," Logan said, and this time he thought maybe Spike believed him.

Spike stopped at a bridge over the environmentally-protected seagrass. "Here you go, kid. Home again."

Logan obediently turned and mounted the steps.  "Just where I'm staying. Home is–"

"Burned down. I remember. You remember my bottle."

"Sure," Logan said, and kept walking, all the way to his patio. He thought he'd left the french doors unlocked, in case Dick needed in, or, you know, in case Veronica decided to stop by and sleep in his bed.  But the doors were closed up tight, the darkness extra dark beyond, and he fumbled in his pocket for his keys.

"I put ‛em in your wallet," Spike said. "You were trying to give them away to those Aussie ruggers."

"Oh, right." Logan found the keys and unlocked the door, imagining Dick standing here feeling rejected, and Veronica going away disappointed. 

"My bottle."

"Oh, right," Logan said, crossing into the little kitchen and flipping on the light.  "Just let me get some to go, and then you can have it."

He heard Spike's heavy sigh back in the living room, and then, "Hey. You got the new Wii X."

"I got it all," Logan said, fumbling in the cabinet where he was pretty sure there was a glass or two.  It was true. He had it all. Every console. Every game. Nintendo and Playstation and even an old Atari he'd found in a junk store. "Frogger," he said. "Now that was a game."

"Partial to Crash Bandicoot myself," Spike said from the living room.

Yeah. Crash. Now that was a game.  Logan stood there a minute, all nostalgic for the old days, when he and Duncan would sit in the poolhouse and play Crash and talk about how cool the X-Men movie would be.

He shook his head, and the cobwebs went spinning away, and he was there in the blank kitchen of the blank condo, and someone was out in the living room humming the Mario theme song. He followed the melody, glass in one hand and bottle in the other, and found the bartender on the floor, hooking up the Wii with the flickering big-screen TV. 

"Just want to try this out–" Spike sat back on his haunches and put his hand in the pocket of his leather jacket.  He pulled out a CD-jewel case, looked at it, and shoved it back, coming out then with a square of cardboard. "Got the game, but not the console."

Logan held out the bottle, but Spike was already sliding in the game disk, and a familiar theme song started up. "Death Metal?" 

Spike had the controller in hand as the flash intro appeared on the screen. "Yeah. The Satanic Variation."

Logan dropped into the rattan chair and, what the hell, poured himself a drink. Not like Spike would care.  "Don't know about that one."

"You're not supposed to." Spike was already deep into choosing the game options, but looked over to say, "Got it off d-Bay."

"You mean e-Bay."

"Nah. d-Bay. You're not supposed to know about that either."

That annoyed Logan.  Maybe he'd flunked out of Hearst, but he wasn't stupid. He knew what he needed to know, and he didn't like being told what he wasn't supposed to know. Didn't like secrets.  He decided to say this aloud. "Don't like secrets."

"Yeah, well, there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio."

That quote he knew. "Than are dreamed of in your philosophy."

Spike didn't look up from his game. "Don't have a philosophy. Or a heaven, for that matter.  Damn and blast, where's the bloody ruby dagger?"

"You Brits cuss funny," Logan said. He studied the screen. "Try behind that hairy guy with the tentacles. What the fuck is that, anyway?  A troll?"

"A Plaxix."

"Sounds like a cholesterol drug."

"First cousin to the Plaxler.  Six tentacles instead of four.  Excretes acid from under those claws like–" Spike pulled back like the spray on the screen hit him instead of just his accelerator bot. "Like that. Shit." He watched as his bot sizzled into smoke on the cave's marble floor. "Now what?"

Logan downed the rest of his glass and swallowed.  It was good whisky. Too good, probably, for just getting drunk.  But it was all he had.  "The ruby in the hilt of the sword. Try that. Rubies sometimes have healing qualities."

Spike slithered what was left of the smoke over to the corner cache. The ruby dulled, then flashed, and the bot sprang forth from the smoke, revived now and ready to fight.  "Not bad, kid." 

"Yeah. Well. One thing I'm good at." Logan slumped back, his head against the cushion. He couldn't remember the one thing he was good at.  "Oh. Yeah. Videogames. Good at that. And... and surfing.  And –" He remembered Veronica, her eyes all misty and admiring– and the only times he saw that look in her eyes.  "And sex."  He realized what he'd said only when Spike glanced back, away from the screen.  "I wasn't meaning that as an invitation."

Spike grinned and turned his attention back to the game.  "Well, all I can say is, just don't take that poncey shirt off, or I can't answer for my actions."

After that, Logan thought he'd better not pass out, but he did anyway.

 

 

The next thing he knew, Spike was over him, hand on his.  "For pity's sake, Logan, give it up before I break you."

Logan blinked up at him, then felt his fingers loosed, one by one, and Spike stepped away, triumphantly brandishing the bottle.  Right. The bottle.

"What time is it?"

Spike was halfway to the door, but stopped to glance out at the darkness over the ocean. "An hour to dawn. I gotta go. Thanks for the bottle. And your girlfriend's card."

"My–" With a great effort, Logan heaved himself out of the chair. "What do you mean, her card?"

"Veronica Mars, private eye. You told me all about her.  When you came out of the trance."  Spike gave him a patient look.  "You don't remember, do you?  Veronica. World's best girl-dick."

"I told you about her?"

"Sure. We shared sad tales of tiny blondes.  I said I needed a PI, and you gave me her card."

"You're not going to hurt her."

Spike shook his head. "Nah. Leaving that up to you, mate, not that I think you will. I'm just going to hire her. To find my own tiny blonde."

And he sauntered out into the fading night, leaving Logan alone with his empty glass and emptier regrets.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, well. When it comes this fast, it's usually stupid. :)
> 
> So... Veronica meets her match==

The office building was a dark block against the dirty lights of West LA. Veronica Mars gave one more glance at the address on her Blackberry, then slid it into her jacket pocket and surveyed the heavy front door.  A dead-bolt lock was too much trouble – there had to be an easier way.  
      
There was.  An old building like this wouldn't have much in the way of air-conditioning, and it took only a minute to locate a ground floor window open a few inches to catch the breeze, and a dark silent office beyond.  
      
Veronica found an ancient crate in the alley and used it to hoist herself up.  Just toss in the CD and go, she told herself, but she knew she was too conscientious for that.  It had taken too long to track and triangulate this Buffy's cell phone just to leave the gift on the floor where anyone could find it.  She would locate the recipient's office or mailbox and leave it there--    

She wasn't halfway through the window before she felt the sudden grasp of two hands on her jacket.  She found herself hauled in through into the darkness and splayed on the wood floor.  Stupid, she thought. Stupid.  She should have seen someone this big– heard him–

"What do you want?"  It was a young voice. A woman's voice.  Right in her ear, next to the massively tight grip.

Veronica choked, "Let me–" and the grip loosened a bit.  The knee in her back, however, stayed put.  "I–"

"Who sent you?"

"Some– some guy."  The knee pressed. Veronica thought of her thin spine, all bone and nerve, and added through her besieged throat, "In Neptune. He hired me–"

"To kill me?"    The woman laughed. "Dream on."

"No." It was all a misunderstanding, and if Veronica just got a minute, she'd fast-talk around it and dive out that open window without betraying too much more of her client-confidentiality.  "Just to find you. If you're Buffy Summers, I mean."    

The woman didn't admit or deny, not exactly.  She just said, her voice low and threatening, "Find me and what?"

"Nothing. I mean, he – he didn't want you to know I found you."

"So he's due a refund, right? Because now I know."

"And I was supposed to leave something for you–"

Veronica's hands were gripped above her head, but she made a try anyway, and the woman said, "Where?"

"In my jacket– will you let me up?"

"Let me make sure you're not armed first. Don't move."

Veronica felt the pressure lift from her back and her neck, and finally her hands were freed, and she had about ten seconds to plan her escape.  Then the woman grabbed her and flung her up onto something soft and groaning. A couch. An old couch.  Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and she could see that the woman wasn't some Bulgarian weightlifter, but small and lithe– not much bigger than Veronica herself. But– as the woman roughly patted her down and shoved her back into the cushions– Veronica had to admit she was much, much stronger.

"What were you supposed to give me?"

"Leave for you."

"Right. I wasn't supposed to see you."

"And you wouldn't have if–" Veronica started, because she took pride in her work, and she wasn't usually caught. "If you hadn't been sitting here all alone in the dark."

"Yeah. Let that be a lesson to you. Sometimes we don't feel like lighting a candle.  Sometimes we just sit here and curse the darkness, you know?"

"Uh–" Veronica shook her head and tried to straighten up on the couch. "Can you light a candle now? Or flip on the overhead? So I can get that thing for you?"

This woman– Buffy, presumably– went over to the table and bent down and picked up a lighter and actually lit a candle.  The flame flickered in the light breeze and cast eerie shadows on the wall. But finally Veronica could see – a desk, a fireplace, an old TV. Buffy small and blonde and belligerent.

"Now give it to me."

Veronica felt around in the inside security pocket of her jacket and brought out the CD case.  She slid it across the floor.  "I don't know why he wanted you to have that, so don't ask.  I don't know why he paid me to bring it when he could have just gone on Amazon and ordered a new copy and had it shipped UPS right to you.  And no, I don't know why he's gone to so much trouble to send you an old metal CD–"

"Metal?" Buffy's voice came muted as she bent to pick up the case.  

"You know."  Veronica gestured towards the CD, to the neatly typed label that identified the band.  "Slayer. Angel of Death.  Reign–"

"Reign in Blood." Buffy was still staring at the label.  "Slayer.  I ... I know."  She took a deep, quavery breath, and Veronica sensed the focus had slipped. This was her chance–

But she had only untangled her legs and set her feet on the floor when Buffy was on her, hand gripping her jaw.  "Tell me.  Who was it?"

Veronica squirmed and the hand let her speak– that was all.  Just speak. Best to make the most of it. "I won't say another word until you back off."

To her surprise, the woman did just that– backed up till she was a few feet away. "Was he cool?"

Cool. Veronica envisioned the man– lean and mean and scary.  "Uh, I guess so. His hair was kind of cool–"

"I mean to the touch. Was he cool to the touch?"

"You think I let him touch me?  He – he looked like a felon.  He looked like he strangled leopards with his bare hands."

"Oh," Buffy said, and she gazed down at the label like it held some secret message.

This is my chance, Veronica thought.  But something held her there.  Maybe it was the way the woman was staring at the label, the way her tough voice softened on that "oh".  

Or maybe it was just curiosity, the same idiotic curiosity that made her take this case in the first place.   "Enjoy the music," she said almost tauntingly. "It cost him $500 to get it to you."

"Five hundred." Buffy looked up.  "Let me see his check."

Veronica shook her head.  "He didn't give me a check."

"No, I guess not– he wouldn't have a checkbook. Not his own, anyway."  Buffy smiled. It was a little secret smile. Almost as scary as his smile, only scarier because it had this edge of tenderness.  Lethal tenderness.  

She flicked a glance back at Veronica, and the smile was gone. "He paid cash then. Let me see the money."

"Maybe I've already spent–" Veronica thought better of it. "Okay." She dug into another inside pocket and came up with the torn envelope.  "Here."

Buffy crossed the floor and seized the envelope and yanked open the flap.  But then she did something strange.  She brought the money to her nose and breathed deep.  "Beer and marijuana," she whispered. "But no tobacco– has he quit smoking again?"

"Well, he didn't smoke when he was with me," Veronica said.  "What are you doing?"

Buffy had spilled the contents out on the desk, and caught a quarter just as it was rolling to the edge.  She didn't even notice Veronica rising and approaching the desk, so intent she was on stacking the quarter on the others, sixteen altogether, and then counting out thirty-one dollar bills, and sixteen fives, and ten tens, and three hundreds.

"It's all there," Veronica said.  She wasn't about to leave without her cash, so she added, "He said he was a bartender.  I guess he saved up all his tips for this."

"Where?" Buffy's attention had snapped to Veronica again. "Where does he tend bar?"

"I told you. Neptune. It's down the coast about fifty miles."

Buffy took all the quarters and a single, wrinkled dollar bill and stuck them in her jeans pocket. "I owe you a five," she said.  "You have a car?"

"Yes, but–"

"You can drive then," Buffy said.  She went behind the desk and grabbed a leather laptop case.  "I'll check out this CD on the way down."

Veronica never thought of herself as lucky. Smart, yes. Lucky, no. Now she had to conclude she was neither.  She'd been stupid enough to get caught by this pretty sociopath. And now she was going to have to drive her down the coast to see that other pretty sociopath. And it looked like they were going to listen to a thrash metal band all the way. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I meant to write more, but too tired tonight, and too many papers to grade. This work thing really does get in the way of writing!

He recognized her knock. Well, her bang, really. Veronica had a fist on her.  Logan felt for the light, couldn't find it in its accustomed place, and then he recognized the music and saw the flickering red display on the CD player, and realized he'd fallen asleep in the living room. Good. That made it easier to get across to the front door, just twelve paces to her—to fling open the door and see her---

"Hi," he said, door flung.  Veronica stood there on his step, her car behind her, still running, the headlights piercing the darkness of the road.

She glared at him, and he realized he'd forgotten to put a shirt on. And that he didn't remember when he took it off.  He glanced back, just to make sure there was no girl (dead or alive) wearing it and nothing else and spread out seductively on the couch.

He glanced back at Veronica just in time to catch the card fluttering from her hand. Her card.

"The guy you gave that to—" She ground these words out, and Logan looked down at the card and remembered Spike, and figured maybe he hadn't made a good impression. 

"How do you know I gave it to him?"

She reached out and took his hand—that hurt—and turned the card over, and there it was, his own word. The motto he ought to have but didn't.   _Don't._   "I recognized your handwriting. What does that mean?" she demanded. "Don't? Don't give this card to sociopaths?"

"Don't call you," he said. He always tried to tell her the truth, at least the last year or so.  It all started when he decided she had to love him for himself, and so he had to be himself, so she would love the real him. Maybe that didn't end up working, but truth-telling kind of became a habit.  "You know. When I get desperate to hear your voice, I take out that card and look at that and remember—Don't. Don't call."

Her face softened, and she raised her hand. Almost touched his face.  "Logan, you can call me whenever you need to. Really."

"No."  He was pleased with his voice—firm.  Level. But that was a lie, wasn't it?  He didn't feel that way. Shouldn't sound that way. But he had to feel that way whenever he stared down at the card and refused to weaken and call her.  "Anyway. The guy. Spike.  He said he needed a private eye—" at least, Logan assumed he had said that. If truthtelling had truly become a habit, Logan would admit that he'd been too drunk to remember.  "Sorry.  I shouldn't have—"

"Hey. I needed the money. And he hired me to find her."  She gave a look back at the car.  "Now she's decided she wants to find him. And—"  For just a second, her voice became uncertain. "And she's a little scary. I think she's a sociopath."

"What do you mean, a sociopath?"

"You know.  No feelings. Cold as ice.  But she smiles sometimes, and we're supposed to believe her."

Logan was charmed by this description.  Veronica had never been really good at that whole self-awareness thing.  "You want me to come with you?  Watch your back?"

She shook her head impatiently.  "I just want you to tell me where to find him. Then I'm going to drop her off and be done with both of them. Oh, great," she added, as the car door slammed behind her.  "She's coming."

And there she was, stalking up the path, Spike's own tiny blonde.  "Wow," Logan said, as the other girl—a woman, really, with youth in her step and old age in her eyes, so split the difference and call her grown up—passed into the glow of the streetlight. "She really looks like you."

"I don't look like a sociopath," Veronica said, her voice hard again.  "Buffy!" she went on, all knife-bright.  "This is Logan. He's going to tell you where Spike is."

Buffy gave him a cool, assessing look, and he thought next time he really ought to get dressed before he answered the door, because he was at a serious disadvantage, half-naked with Satellite Party playing on the CD.  Pretty sad, and this Buffy's gaze told him she'd read him, every muscle and vein, as just what he was.  Veronica must have realized this, because she moved in front of him. Protectively.  He ought to be insulted.  Shouldn't be pleased, anyway.

"You know Spike?" Buffy said.  She was a little taller than his own tiny blonde, and he could see her raised eyebrows over the top of V's head.

"Yeah. We've met. Couple times." 

"Tell me where he hangs out."

Logan calculated. Closing time would have hit Spike's bar an hour or so ago.  And Spike—though he'd served Logan a few drinks a few times since and come by the other night to collect his videogame—never said where he lived.  But Logan had seen him go into an alley down by the docks.  A dark alley.  Hmm. This girl-woman might be a sociopath, but that was one ugly alley.  He didn't answer until he'd located and donned his shirt and came back out into the cool night. "I'll take you there."

"I'm coming too," Veronica declared, and his broken heart warmed a little. It didn't mend, but it warmed. Just a little.  Hey. Maybe she was even jealous.  Veronica could get jealous, he knew that for a fact.  She might not feel anything more, but boy, she could feel jealousy.  Once he told her it was because she was an only child, used to being the center of attention.  That made her mad. (She could get mad too.)

The girls started back to the car, but Logan said, "Better walk. It's down the boardwalk."

So he and Buffy waited for Veronica to go over and turn the car off. And Buffy turned to him then, her eyes peculiarly bright, and demanded, "How is he? Spike?"

Now how did you answer that?  Not with the whole truth and nothing but. Logan had some suspicions, only he didn't know what they were, besides suspicions.  So he shrugged. "Seems okay to me." And then, because Buffy was waiting so tense, her hands in little fists by her side, he added, "Drinks a lot."

Oddly, that made Buffy relax and uncurl her fists.  "He always did.  Jack Daniels?" 

Okay, this tiny blonde knew way more about Spike's habits than she probably ought to.  He was getting the idea—if he hadn't already gotten that from what Spike had said—that the two of them had a history.  "Yeah. JD, and whatever more pricey stuff he can liberate from the bar."

"Oh," she whispered.  Christ, it was weird, that whisper.  Spike thought she didn't care, but –

Veronica came up then, stuffing her keys into her backpack, and they went around the side of the condo to the wooden walk.  The ocean was out there, noisy but dark. Otherwise Logan might get confused and think they were back in school together, him with his flip-flops and her with her backpack.  Had to be careful not to reach out and take her hand the way he used to.  Of course, he didn't used to have another fierce girl following on his heels like this, all tension and anticipation --

See, he wanted to tell Veronica. She's not a sociopath.  See, he wanted to tell Spike. She cares.

But he didn't say anything at all, and neither did anyone else, until they were turning into the alley, both blondes all tight and ready.  Ready for what, he didn't want to know—well, he knew.  Buffy was like Veronica. Ready for some plug-ugly to jump out from behind the dumpster. Ready for violence. Ready for whatever.

"Stay there," Buffy ordered, and Veronica, surprisingly, didn't protest, just stationed herself at the entrance to the alley, hand on her cellphone.  Logan glanced back, shook his head, followed Buffy down through the eerie shadows. 

Keep them both in view. Keep them both in view. Be ready--

But not ready for this—a dead end, a single light over an empty space, a brick wall all around.  Buffy smiled and closed her eyes and reached out her hand.  And the wall kind of faded and there was a wooden door and a sudden burst of song and a dirty window where there had a moment ago been only bricks. 

Logan wasn't ready for that either, but—but he was sort of ready for it.  He'd spent some time playing that game of Spike's, spent more time googling the title and following the links.  And he'd done a few hours on d-Bay too, and he was beginning to understand what Spike had meant.  There are more things on heaven and earth, Horatio. 

Heaven and earth and points in between.

Buffy had already been there, heaven and earth and points—must have, anyway, because she banged on the door and didn't flinch when it opened and the music poured out, and the heat too, a wave of sound and heat.  And she didn't flinch when the darkness at the door was split by red light-- higher than her head, even higher than Logan's head (and he was pretty tall).  Two red lights, coming from two red eyes.

"I'm looking for Spike," she announced, and Red Eye pulled back and let her in. 

"Hey, V," Logan called, and started into the club.  But a rough hand shoved him back, and the door clanged shut, and through it he heard a growl--  _No minors_.

Veronica appeared at his arm, breathless.  "Don't you have the ID I gave you?"

"Didn't have time to show it to him."

He expected that she would shrug and lead him away, her mission completed.  But she asked, "Is he in there?"

"Bouncer seemed to think so." 

"I want to see. Lift me up."  She moved over to the window

He really didn't want her to see in there—  who knew what she'd see.  But he really wanted to hold her again.  She was waiting there, her hands on the wall, and his desire won out.  He put his hands on her little waist, his thumbs on the gold-link belt, his fingers on the smoothness of her bare sides under her cropped t-shirt. 

He hefted her up, just enough, just to the window.  Her neck was right there by his mouth, so he bent a little closer, so that he could breathe it in, that V scent, Promises and coconut shampoo and a little salt.  He closed his eyes and remembered when this was his nightly treat. 

He was never going to get over her.

Yeah. He was. He got over Lily being murdered. He got over his mother offing herself. He could get over loving Veronica.

"It's a costume party," she said. "Everyone's—like dressed as a monster."

This made him open his eyes and peer over her shoulder through the dirty window.  She was right, or as right as she could be when she was still in Horatio-land.  Everyone inside the strobe-lit club was dressed like a monster. 

Veronica had a busy mind. It always tried to make sense of things. And that was how she made sense of this.

She even sounded a little wistful.  Costume parties were fun.  He used to throw them sometimes, back when he was fun. The Alterna-Prom, the Dress-to-Get-Laid Party, the Sweet-Sunday-Best Picnic…. He should have a Dress Like Your Favorite Demon Party.

_It's Closing Time, Closing Time…._

The chorus rose, all the monsters singing along—

_I loved you when our love was cursed,_

_I loved you when it was something worse…._

"I think that's Spike," Veronica said, and he looked over where she was looking. "He's wearing a mask too."

Yeah, a mask. A predatory face, ridged forehead, eyes that glowed golden as he laughed down at some other monster in a mask, only this one had four arms, most of them around Spike's waist.  Logan contemplated quitting drinking, then contemplated drinking more, then decided to accept. Just accept. Reality was always more extreme than he imagined, and so he'd been trying to learn to accept whatever came. Yeah, so his father killed his girlfriend. Yeah, so his best friend killed his father (if that's what happened—whatever happened, he'd accept it).  Yeah, his mother was really dead.  Yeah, he was holding Veronica again, but she wasn't holding him.

Yeah, they were looking through a dirty window at a barfull of dancing monsters.

"Oh, no, there she goes," Veronica whispered, and Logan now noticed Buffy stalking—and that's what she was doing, stalking—across the dancefloor, effortlessly brushing aside monsters who got in her way.  She walked right up to Spike, shoved the girl monster with four arms, and raised her hand to slap his face.

But quick as lightning, Spike caught her arm, and the monster mask melted away, and there he was, the Spike Logan knew—the kind of pretty-boy-Floyd assassin guy who accidentally on purpose left behind his videogame, just so Logan would have something to do other than get drunk. 

Spike and Buffy stared at each other, and then, as one, turned toward the door.

Not the near door, but another door entirely, one that opened up as they approached.  He dropped Veronica then, just as a distraction, and it worked, landing her hard on the pavement so she had to grab at him to stay on her feet.  So she didn't see the two of them emerge from what looked like bare brick.

She heard them though, and so did Logan—the two of them jamming words fast and furious, right at each other—

_What are you doing here—_

_What the bloody hell do you think you're doing here—_

_That bitch had her tentacle down your pants—don't think I didn't see—_

_I don't want you here, slayer—just leave me be—_

_Leave you—you're the one who sent that girl to find me._

_Didn't mean for you to find me-_

_That CD—you're going to tell me about— you owe me that much-_

_I don't owe you anything. Not anymore._

_You owe me everything._

_Nothing._

They fought like wild things, only with words not blows, and Logan felt Veronica tense beside him.  She wasn't used to this.  Her parents didn't fight.  Too dangerous.  Too many secrets and lies that might come out if they let loose. 

Logan, well, his parents didn't fight much either. His mother had given up a long time ago.  Even before that, they didn't fight like this—like they knew each other well enough to risk everything.

He reached out a hand, took Veronica's wrist. Loosely.  They never fought like this either. Sometimes they'd yell at each other, and then they'd stop. Too scary.  They'd break up if they yelled too much. (They broke up anyway, but so quietly it was a week before Logan realized she really meant it.)

But these two—Spike and his Buffy in this salt-tinged dark alley, fury sparking between them, their faces close enough that they could bite each other.  And then, suddenly, mid-accusation, Buffy reached up a hand and curled it around Spike's neck and pulled him down and kissed him.

It wasn't what Logan expected—it was a tender kiss. Aching sweetness. Yearning.

If Veronica had ever kissed him that way—well, he wouldn't be pulling away like Spike was.

Veronica was holding her breath.  He risked a glance—she wasn't looking at them. She wasn't looking at him.  She was looking out into the darkness where the surf was breaking on the sand. 

"Spike," Buffy whispered, and put her hand on his cheek.

He pushed her away.  "Not going down that road this time, slayer."  And he turned and strode out of the alley.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on LiveJournal in March 2007.


End file.
